Musings from the Slush Pile

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Jule Anne Lindsey

Sunday, June 13, 2010

I wrote my first manuscript a year ago. It was a YA number, and I still love lots of things about it. In fact, I may at some point return to doctor it up a bit. The thing is that it was my first, and we all know how that normally goes. With our firsts, we are passionate and frenzied. We can look and look at them and see no room for improvement because they are perfect. A year later and several months apart and it has all changed. I can see the problems now. I'm just too busy to get to it right away. You'll see why.

My second manuscript followed quickly after the first. It was completely different than the first, though I had the same passion as I did with the first. The pages came pouring out of me. The story was telling itself. In fact, I couldn't wait to get to my keyboard and see what would happen. (I didn't have the discipline to pre-write and outline and work through the story first). I just had to answer the questions, What if? What if? What if?

My third (yep, but wait there's more) novel was another YA this time a suspense. LOVED it too. I should mention at this point that I continue to love every manuscript more than the last. I should because I am learning. Statistically speaking, they are each bound to get better from experience. Also, as I write I am reading, researching learning.

My fourth and fifth novels were written in tandem. That is not a joke. IN TANDEM. One fantasy and one satire. How's that for two ends of a spectrum. They are finished now as well.

So, I have written 5 novels each falling between 75-85,000 words. I feel as if I have gone completely insane with the onslaught of a sudden mental illness. Writing. 18 months ago, I had no interest in becoming a published author. I wrote when I did for different reasons. Today, I can't stop. I pray for a day or two of writers block. My mind is plotting and scheming all day everyday. I even spent an hour at church on Wednesday night trying to determine how to kill a character.

Where has this all come from and now that I have allowed it a small opening, am I done for? Writers out there, do you feel the same way? Do your fingers ache to tell a tale, any tale, all the time? Mine do, and I love them all. It's like the honeymoon phase with my husband (which also perseveres) I am giddy-happy-excited to write, BUT, and there's always one of those, I worry that I may turn up on medication. The floodgate is now open.